


Sidequests

by uro_boros



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 18:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10747743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uro_boros/pseuds/uro_boros
Summary: Missed connection:You, with the bloody knuckles, angry and wound up like you were set to burst.Me, blue balls, and bluer, hypothermic, balls.--As it is, Jean’s spent the better part of two and a half years in love with Marco, wasting his lit major on truly terrible poetry about longing and unrequited love. Not that he thought it was terrible.Eren smiles. His cheeks don’t dimple with it, the way Marco’s do, but the curve of his lips is plush and mischievous. “Let’s get a drink,” he suggests.





	Sidequests

Missed connection:

You, with the bloody knuckles, angry and wound up like you were set to burst.

Me, blue balls, and bluer, hypothermic, balls.

–

It’s Marco who leans over to whisper conspiratorially in his ear, “That’s _Eren,_ you should talk to him.” He says it with a smile that dimples both cheeks, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he’d funneled vodka down Jean’s throat like it was going out of style, he could be mistaken for the picture of angelic innocence. 

As it is, he’s funneled vodka down Jean’s throat. As it is, Jean’s spent the better part of two and a half years in love with him, wasting his lit major on truly terrible poetry about longing and unrequited love. Not that he thought it was terrible. His professor told him that.

“Nah,” he says instead, glancing quickly over at Eren – eyebrows knitted, frowning, fingers clasped around a dart – “I’m here for you, babe,” he winks, and it feels less stupid than it is because Marco laughs and because he has half a bottle of hard liquor sloshing around in his stomach.

Regrets, like hangovers, are saved for morning afters.

* * *

 

–

When he’s eighteen, he’s in love with Maxim models and busty Asian beauties that live on seedy websites. Nineteen comes with the shock of Marco who is neither a Maxim model nor a busty Asian beauty, but who Jean’s dick is definitely, definitely interested in.

It’s not what he’s expecting, but he likes to think he’s a liberal guy, so it’s fine. It’s cool. Marco’s hot. Marco’s nice and easy to talk to, and seems to think Jean is better than Jean actually is. He hasn’t really tried hard to dissuade Marco of that notion just yet.

“Well,” he says to himself, laying in his dorm bed after the first jerk-off session that features Marco prominently. “Well.”

His breathing feels ragged, like he’s just run a marathon. He thinks of Marco’s smile, and his dick gives a hopeful, pathetic twitch.

“Well, fuck,” he says, and rolls over to try to sleep.

–

“Fuck you, fuck _you!_ ” Jean hears shouted from across the street, a door slamming to accompany it. “God, you’re such a fucking asshole, I never should have _–!_ ”

Whatever comes next gets lost in the rain, but it sounds a lot like a fist hitting a wall, a yell strangled halfway through.

He doesn’t mean to look. It’s policy number one to let people deal with their own shit.

But maybe he’s feeling particularly maudlin tonight or maybe particularly lonely. Marco’s girlfriend moved in, and Jean smiled and toasted them and wished them all the best, and now he’s here, in the rain and fucking drenched without an umbrella, watching someone pace and shiver under a streetlight.

“Hey,” he calls, “you okay?”

The figure under the light stops.

“Are you talking to me?” It says. It’s hard to hear over the rain. 

This is weird, Jean thinks. He’s weird for doing this. Why is he doing this?

“I – I just heard,” his mouth forms before he can stop it. He hates vodka, and loves Marco. He can already feel a headache forming. “It just didn’t sound good,” he says.

The figure doesn’t move or answer.

Jean waits.

And waits.

And waits. Until he’s officially soaked and done with this, and the only sound is the sound of the rain, hitting the ground hard. 

And in the darkness, between the roars of the deluge, he hears: “Have you ever loved someone you really, really shouldn’t?”

Which yeah, is pretty much his fucking existence at this point.

“Yeah,” he says back. “Shit fucking sucks.”

There’s a startled laugh and the figure shifts, maybe like it’s turning away. “Yeah,” it agrees, “shit really fucking sucks.”

–

“I think you’d like Eren,” says Marco the next day, way too brightly for someone who passed out in the bathroom next to his girlfriend the night before. “And you should really get out and date more.”

“You my mom?” Jean asks him, eyebrow arching. “Also, why Eren? I like women.”

“And guys,” Marco grins. Jean regrets telling him that. He continues, a little more delicately than the bulldozing he’s been pulling on Jean: “And I think you two would be good together. Eren needs someone…a little sweeter.”

“I’m sweet?” he asks, shaking his head. “Nah, Marco, I’m good.” Quieter, he goes on, “I met someone last night anyway.”

The professor comes in and lecture starts before Marco can press, though he clearly wants to. 

There are small mercies and miracles in the world. Sometimes, they even deign to save Jean.

–

 _Who did you meet,_ his phone buzzes in class, _are they nice? are they cute? what’s their name? how did you meet? at my party? You have to tell me!_

Jean ignores it because it feels stupid to type back, I found them crying outside in the rain after getting kicked out of someone’s place. It feels dumber to say that he has no idea who they are or if that even counts as a meeting.

Five minutes in the rain and shared heartbreak. A missed connection for something that never existed. A point of time that only existed on the edge of something else – of other relationships and other people.

Talk about romantic.

Instead, he thumbs his phone off and ducks out of class right as the professor finishes up. Marco pouts at him from the seats, but waves back when Jean waves at him.

–

Of course, his fingers are stupid.

Missed connection, he writes, on the stupid forum he signed up for as a freshman and then promptly never used.

You, crying, doesn’t sound fair. Me, pining for someone else, isn’t either.

He writes something dumb.

Hits enter.

Later, this will be a grave mistake, and also something brilliant. The universe has a weigh of balancing.

–

His inbox blows up with precisely four messages in the first two hours. By hour six, he’s at ten – a dozen or so likes, more laughing emojis. A few comments on his balls, which he deserves, admittedly.

Then, this:

Missed Connection:

Me, breaking up with my boyfriend.

You, shouting at me from across the street like some freak, who the fuck does that? 

But also me: love is kind of shitty, let’s get a drink. I never learn from my mistakes, so why start now? ;)

The profile associated with it is newly made – there’s no picture, just a silhouette of a head and shoulders, and the profile name only reads E.

How am I supposed to do that, he writes back with shaky hands.

Figure it out, says E. Which – isn’t helpful in the slightest.

Jean feels himself grinning in spite of it.

–

That’s when shit goes down, predictably. It takes off like a wildfire – missed connections and blue balls, the mysterious E, and a drink on the line. Jean gets hundreds and hundreds of messages with suggestions that turn into thousands. 

Marco texts him in all caps and half emojis, and calls him three times in the span of twenty minutes, breathless and laughing.

The reporters bite next.

Modern day Cinderella, goes up an article on the school’s news site the next morning. His name is in it, and his school picture, his major and even his fucking favorite movie _(Marco),_ and it spells out the details of Marco’s party – at a bar, not a ball, though the way it’s spun in the report paints it in a lot more grand of detail than the reality of the dingy student bar – and Jean leaving at midnight.

“I went home at two,” he points out to Marco, “after puking in the bathroom.” Marco waves a hand.

“Details,” he says, dismissive.

It’s ridiculous.

“Everyone’s really into this,” Marco tells him earnestly. He’s smiling; a soft blush has spread across his cheeks and his hair, unruly, keeps falling into his eyes. Jean wants to push it away. 

“Yeah, well,” he says, looking away and clearing his throat, “I have three thousand emails from people saying they’re E, and another ten thousand of people telling me who they think E is. So. I don’t exactly see anything happening from this.”

“Come on, don’t be like that,” says Marco. “It’s romantic. You never know what could happen.”

“They deleted their profile,” Jean tells him. The initial rush has died down. He still wants Marco, and swallows it the thought down the back of his throat like a bitter drink. “And the school is huge.”

“You’re such a defeatist,” Marco sighs. “I could always text Eren if you want a date." 

Before Jean can say no, Marco sighs again, his eyes gentle and his lips curving into a slightly sad smile. "But that's a no, isn't it?" 

Jean rubs his hand on the back of his neck and shrugs. "You know me," he trails. "Well, you know me."

\--

It takes him approximately twenty minutes to walk from campus to his apartment, depending on weather and other things, like blood alcohol content.

But mid-afternoon on a spring Tuesday is a quiet type of day, and Jean doesn't day drink as a rule (an easily broken one, but still, a rule). He gets out of his last class of the day at about thirty minutes past one. His papers are written, and possible tests are a distant problem for future Jean. He's bored and vaguely lonely, a tiny itching sensation under his skin. He's also resolutely ignoring his phone, which has more texts on it than he's ever received in his life. 

He tugs the beanie on his head a little further down around his ears. Combined with his glasses, it's proven an effective disguise for navigating the worst of campus busy spots despite his new and unexpected popularity. 

It's not quite effective enough to stop Eren Jaeger. 

"Hey!" Comes a shout from behind him. "Hey, hey, hold up." Jean keeps walking. Maybe even at a slightly faster pace. 

"Don't be a dick! I said hold up!" The voice shouts again. There's a distinct huff and then the sound of feet hitting the pavement hard. Then, a distinct presence beside him. 

"Hey," says the presence. 

Jean turns his head and says, "If you're here about that post online, I don't want to talk about it." 

Then he sees who's next to him. 

"What?" Says Eren, blinking at him. His brow furrows. "Uh, no, whatever, you're Marco's friend, right? John?" 

"Uh," Jean says smartly. Which isn't fair to him. He actually is pretty smart. 

Eren waits. His arms are wrapped around a big duffle, nearly half his size. He's a little smaller than Jean, in all, and takes a half step more for every one Jean takes. Slowing his pace is an unconscious action. 

"John," repeats Eren slowly, "Marco's friend?" 

"It's actually Jean," he finally manages at a point long enough after Eren’s question for Eren’s expectant waiting to go from exasperated to _oh, he’s slow._

“Jean,” Eren corrects himself. “Marco’s friend.”

“Yeah,” says Jean, “Marco’s friend.” He wonders when German lost so many words -- maybe the dictionary shit itself at some point in the last ten minutes, reducing its contents to Jean, John, Marco, and friend. With the way his life has been going, he wouldn’t be surprised. 

Eren smiles. His cheeks don’t dimple with it, the way Marco’s do, but the curve of his lips is plush and mischievous. “Let’s get a drink.”

\--  
That’s how, on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, Jean gets disgustingly drunk. 

Eren’s preferred drink of choice is Fireball, which is disgusting; his second choice is whiskey-coke, which is marginally better. “Everyone always thinks it’s going to be Jägermeister, because my last name is Jaeger, so fucking funny, ha ha,” he tells Jean sometime during the first round. 

“So, Fireball is your teenage rebellion?” Jean asks him and gets a cackle in response.

“Something like that,” Eren acknowledges, and folds his arms across the table, laying his head down on them. His eyes are green and intense; Jean feels caught under them, pierced and pieced out. He seems to be waiting for something, but what, Jean doesn’t know. 

He orders a second round as an escape, and a third round to forget.

The fourth round is so that Eren doesn’t go home, and the fifth so Jean goes back with him when he does.

\--

The stripping and sex is furious and fast. Jean’s too drunk to slow either of them down.

He thinks it hurts Eren, at some point, maybe in the middle of it. There’s a part where Eren’s expression screws up tight and he gasps a noise that sounds wrenched from him, but when Jean goes to stop, he can’t, urged on by Eren’s grip around his shoulders and his slurred _come on, come on, harder._ He thinks, maybe the pain is deeper than where he can reach, and it’s an unfair thought. He’s drunk. He bites Eren’s shoulder and fucks him hard like Eren begs him to.

He’ll be nicer in the morning. It’s always easier in the morning.

\--

It’s never easier in the morning, especially when you wake up hungover in a bed that isn’t your own, covered in purpling bites and reddened welts from blunt nails.

Jean wakes up with a hangover, aching, and in an empty bed. He isn’t particularly surprised by any of that 

There’s a yellow sticky note on the nightstand, next to some Advil, a bottle of water, and his clothes, folded in meticulous, military-neat folds underneath.

He takes his time waking up, blinking blearily at the popcorn ceiling, stretching his shoulders and feeling them pop with a satisfying burst of pain. When he feels ready, he rolls over and grabs at the note.

 _Thanks for getting a drink with me,_ it says in slanted, loping cursive. _I have class, but there’s some leftover pizza in the fridge if you wake up and you’re hungry. I’m out at 2._

It’s a pretty polite way to let someone down after a one-stand, in all, and even gives a helpful time to be out by. Jean scans it a few times before the words connect to any sort of meaning in his head; then he stands, pops the Advil, and dresses. 

He fishes his phone out of his pocket -- and winces when the screen comes on at full brightness. Dozens of voice mails, hundreds of texts, all some variation of asks about E. He doesn’t know; hungover, he doesn’t particularly fucking care about E. It was a throwaway post, because Jean felt sappy and sad, and someone else had also been sad, and now it defines him.

It makes his hackles raise for a brief second, but his head hurts and the effort that anger takes isn’t worth sustaining. He presses delete on the voice mails and delete on the texts.

There are five from Marco. His heart hurts more than his head.

Jean hits delete on those too.

\--

Sometime on the way home, his phone dies. He lets it stay off, pulling his blinds shut and crawling into bed.

You’re such a defeatist, Marco had chided him. But it was easier, wasn’t it, to always expect failure and not victory.

\--

He wakes up to a banging on his door that he can’t ignore like he can his phone.

“What, Marco, I don’t feel like talking --“ he starts before cutting himself off.

In front of him, with a plastic bag of Chinese takeout, is Eren Jaeger. 

“Um,” says Jean, realizing he’s standing in his doorway in boxers.

“I saw it all last night,” Eren says cheerfully, pushing his way past Jean’s arm and to the shitty, wobbly table in Jean’s living room. “Come on, come on, I brought lunch.”

He’s already unloading noodles onto plates, handing one over to Jean as soon as Jean, a little blown away, sits down. “You know,” Eren says, pointing the prongs of his fork at Jean before biting into a piece of broccoli, “I said I’d be back at two. And you didn’t give me your number? I had to ask Marco, and then you didn’t pick up your phone, so then I had to ask Marco for where you lived, and it was an entire thing, so don’t do that again.” 

“My phone died,” Jean says lamely.

Eren nods. “Yeah, I figured.” And he smiles, and it’s a nice smile, even if it’s not Marco’s smile, thinks Jean. It’s nice because it’s Eren’s smile. 

He may be a little overwhelmed. 

“This is probably a lot,” continues Eren, with a hand wave at the Chinese food and himself. “But you know, I’m batting three out of three right now, what with finding you, getting the drink, and fixing the blue balls, so I thought I could push my luck a little. If this isn’t cool, though, I get it.”

“It’s cool,” Jean says reflexively. Then, “Three out of three?”

“Yeah?” Eren quirks an eyebrow. “I mean, technically, I told you to figure it out, but whatever. Worked out in the end.”

Jean swallows. It feels weirdly hard to do.

“You’re E. Because E stands for Eren. You’re Eren.”

“Yeah,” Eren says encouragingly. “Me, Eren. You, Jean.” There is a pregnant pause, as gears begin to turn and the pieces begin to click.

“Oh god,” Eren says, his gentle mocking tone from earlier fraying at the ends and bleeding into panic, “you didn’t know it was me, did you?”

Jean swallows again; this time, it’s like swallowing sand. “No,” he teases out from his suddenly uncooperative tongue.

Eren’s expression is caught between various shades of horror. Jean forces himself to swallow for a third time.

“Did you know,” he says, nearly strangling himself to get it out, “that Marco and like, half of the student population, wants us to date? It’s going to be a little disappointing for them if all we did was bang.”

The horrified cast of Eren’s expression eases just a little. “Yeah,” he says, “guess we can’t do that.”

“No,” Jean agrees, “I guess we’ll just have to go on a date after all.”

The smile he gets is worth it.


End file.
